


It's Not A Date

by Stale_Cinnamon_Roll



Series: Not Mithridatism [2]
Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Cooking, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll/pseuds/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll
Summary: After his turn to host a dinner party fell through thanks to everyone deserting him to instead celebrate Valentine's Day, Murphy somehow sulks his way into new plans.A.K.A. If Murphy doesn't have a date, and 10k doesn't have a date, why not not-have-a-date together?
Relationships: 10K/Murphy (Z Nation)
Series: Not Mithridatism [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162673
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	It's Not A Date

**Author's Note:**

> This was quickly written over the last 24 hours so please be forgiving if it's not up to my usual standard.  
> :D
> 
> Also, 10k still goes by Tommy as it's a No Zombie AU

The coffee machine hums, the usually welcome siren song naught but an irritation after a night of restless sleep. Murphy finds himself humming along anyway, the noise most definitely sarcastic as it rumbles low in his throat.

He yanks the fridge door open and snatches up the cream. Just because _he’s_ bitter this morning doesn’t mean his coffee has to be, too. Instead of instantly slamming the door shut again like any reasonable man would, he instead pauses, allowing himself a moment to take in the other contents. Because why stop at just being bitter when he can add in some self-inflicted sourness, too? Stacked up before him is a painstakingly prepared meal: tubs of chopped fruits and veggies, a jug of soup nestled beside some ramekins, and even a ceramic dish in which some prime cuts of meat are tied together and resting.

Tonight was meant to be his turn to host their semi-regular dinner party. Tonight was meant to be him showing off the full extent of his culinary abilities. _Tonight_ was meant to be him proving once and for all that he’s a better chef than Garnett!

But, no.

It’s not happening.

Everyone has decided to abandon him in favour of going on some stupid, meaningless _dates_.

He slams the door shut with his hip, the fridge’s contents letting out a rather jarring rattle. Not that Murphy pays it any mind, instead just stomping his way over to the coffee machine. A tall glass already waiting on the countertop, he pops open the carton and—

And recoils, a sourness intruding upon his senses. Slowly, he lifts the carton up, eyeing the text printed on the side. ‘ _Use by: Feb 14_ ’.

February 14th. Today.

“Oh, isn’t that just wonderful. The damn _cream_ can get a Valentine’s date, but _I_ _can’t_?”

With a disgusted curl tugging at his lip, he hurls the carton into the bin.

Bitter it is, then.

Not wanting to be cooped up in his apartment all day and stewing in his anger, Murphy had decided to go for a walk. To get some fresh air. To feel the cold winds of winter’s end flowing through his combed back hair.

And it had been the worst idea he’s had in years.

Not wanting to go through this day cooking for one, he’d hoped to stop by one of his favourite cafés. They advertise their eggs benedict as ‘to die for’ and, yeah, the man would agree. Murphy is the first to admit that he would take strangling an old woman with her own hairnet into serious consideration if it would guarantee him their last serving of the day. Though if that old woman happened to be Ms. Hamish from two suites down, he wouldn’t even need to think about it. Fuck, some days he wouldn’t even need a promise of eggs drizzled in hollandaise. If that dusty old bitch asks him one more _damn_ time why such an ‘eligible bachelor’ hasn’t gotten himself a wife – this despite her seeing the revolving door of _men_ he’s brought home over the years! – then Murphy is certain that should he design for her to meet an unfortunate fate, it would not weigh upon his soul one bit!

Loosening his fingers before their instinctive clenching crushes his paper coffee cup, Murphy sighs, turning into towards the park.

So, yeah, worst idea he’s ever had. Because the café had been wall to wall filled by doe-eyes idiots holding hands and drinking _pink coffee_. There was no way in this life or the next that Murphy would be seen dead in that place, and that’s even _before_ he’d noticed the gaudy decorations, once cream walls now draped in red and pink and white. He’d ordered a coffee – a normal one, and with uncurdled cream – and swiftly went on his way, dignity proudly intact.

He’d thought he’d escaped this madness only to now find himself strolling through the park, once more surrounded by couples walking hand in hand. Being trapped amongst such ostentatious displays of love makes Murphy ache. His feet, that is. Because every damn bench he passes by is taken up by people cuddling and kissing and all he wants to do is find somewhere to sit while he drinks his non-bitter fucking coffee!

It takes him long enough to finally find a seat unsullied by romance that he wishes he’d had the foresight to just cut out the middleman and order his coffee iced. He doesn’t let this opportunity go to waste, however, making a beeline for the empty spot on the bench. On it sits a young man, as painfully alone as Murphy is, though nowhere near as handsome. Below a mop of messy black hair is a pair of grey eyes, icy as they gaze out across the crowds. The guy is picking at a loose thread by a pocket on his dark grey jeans, worn boots tapping idly in the dirt. This attempt at an outfit is tied together by a black bomber jacket, one likely made from the cheapest of cheap leather. He’s certainly not of the ilk Murphy usually allows himself to associate with, and somewhere so visible, too! Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and this _is_ a public park…

Without saying a word, never mind making eye contact, Murphy wipes the bench down with one hand before taking his seat.

This is stupid. This _day_ is stupid. Everyone is paired up and acting all lovey-dovey. If they actually, truly cared about their partners then they wouldn’t need an overly commercialised day to show it: they’d show it _every_ day!

But, no, they just _had_ to celebrate Valentine’s Day, ruining his dinner party to go out and be romantic, just as the marketing geniuses at Hallmark had demanded of them. Warren and Garnett, he can sort of understand. Them getting together hadn’t been too much of a surprise, what with those two having been making eyes at each other for years, their longing gazes sweet enough to make Murphy’s eyes roll and teeth ache. But Doc? That old bastard has been divorced more times than Murphy has even _loved_ a guy, for fuck’s sake! And now even _he_ has gone and gotten himself a date, leaving Murphy alone with a fridge full of carefully prepared food.

He’d sank so much time and effort into crafting tonight’s flawlessly curated menu, each recipe painstakingly perfected over time. Today was meant to be the day that he reclaimed his throne, his venison pavé tender enough to blow Garnett’s beef wellington completely out of the water! And yet here he is, downing a cup of now-cold coffee while sharing a bench with a scruffy punk.

Still, at least he isn’t alone in his misery. That is, assuming this guy doesn’t betray him by having plans to meet someone here…

“You needing this spot? Ain’t waiting on someone, are you?”

Those icy grey eyes turn, curious as they rove over the impeccably dressed man who had dared to intrude on his silent solitude. “No.”

“Just thought I’d check. Wouldn’t want to get in the way should there be a girl in the picture. Or a guy. No one wants to play third wheel.”

“S’why I’m here.” The young man shrugs, turning back to idly watching the cooing couples milling around the park. “Housemate has a date. Thought I’d get out of her way.”

Murphy can’t help the grin tugging at his lip. “Well, wasn’t that considerate of you. She gets wined and dined while you’re sitting out here, all cold and hungry.”

“Just cold.” The young man returns the grin with one of his own. One that’s endearingly lopsided. Slipping a gloved hand into his jacket, he tugs free an opened packet of Oreos.

“Oh, you poor thing, no. That ain’t real food. That’s just sugar and dust. Not even worth the calories.”

And the guy just shrugs again. “I like ‘em.”

Usually this would be the part where he doubts the young man’s upbringing because, seriously, Oreos? Even as far as snacks and comfort food go, this mass-marketed brand of cookie is just too… common. Does no one bake these days? Even as a kid he’d much preferred the cookies his mother would bake every Sunday afternoon. It’s what inspired that man’s lifelong love of cooking! But, of course, Murphy is in no place to criticise even such a poor choice of food as the young man had actually had the forethought to bring something with him, avoiding a mistake that Murphy himself had made.

And it _would_ be right around this moment that a pang of hunger starts creeping into his belly. He hadn’t wanted to cook alone, banking on the café to make up for his skipped breakfast and lunch.

“Want one?”

Murphy glances up, pulled from this blue reverie by the rustling of the cookie packet that had been thrust under his nose. “Not sure I should. My mother always warned me about taking food from strangers, especially if they were strange men.”

Dark browse lift over amused grey eyes, the young man lifting his other hand and holding it out expectantly. “Name’s Tommy.”

And, well, Murphy can’t _not_ shake his hand. That would be rude. Momentarily grasping those rough, slender fingers with his own, he completes the introduction. “Murphy.”

Their shake over and done with, the Oreo packet is once again thrust in the man’s direction in a way that he wouldn’t hesitate to deem uncouth if not for the hopeful look that accompanies it.

“You know, any self-respecting man would rather go hungry than eat one of these.” Murphy takes a cookie and pops it into his mouth, his mind singing with a single desire. He wants to see that lopsided grin again. And he does.

Their exchange done, the pair turn back towards the park. They sit in silence, two sets of eyes drifting over the crowds, taking in the all the loving couples who remain completely oblivious to anything but their own happiness.

With no more coffee in hand, Murphy starts to feel the cold. A cold that Tommy has likely had no respite from all day. The man should head on home. It’s warm there, after all, so he’d have to be an idiot to willingly sit here in the cold when he has somewhere else he can be. Even if this silence is comfortable. And home isn’t just warm: it’s also where the food is. Food that he’d intended to cook for his nearest and dearest. And yes, that includes Garnett.

But…

It’s also food that he doesn’t want to cook alone.

“So, tell me, Tommy. Do you like venison?”

“Oh, Alvin. There won’t be any more of this bringing strange boys home once you’re married. Think of your poor wife!”

“Can’t think of someone who doesn’t exist, Ms. Hamish.”

“Doesn’t exist _yet_. You could meet her any day now!”

“Somehow I doubt that…”

Ushering Tommy in ahead of him, Murphy slams the door shut before he garrottes the old bitch with her scarf.

“So, uh…” With an awkward clearing of his throat, Tommy shifts from foot to foot. “…You do this often?”

“No! …Yes. Well, I _used_ to.” The man watches his guest carefully, judging his reaction. If he wants to leave, Murphy won’t stop him. “Had my fun when I was younger, but who doesn’t? Now that I want to settle down, though, it doesn’t seem like many other guys do. Nothing wrong with enjoying some company from time to time as I look for Mister Right.”

“Yeah, it’s hard.” The young man doesn’t seem put off by Murphy’s revelation, which is a relief. If Tommy had left, he’d have to eat alone. “Back home, it was only safe to date girls. Thought coming here would be better but city guys only wanna fool around.”

“What, and you turned every one of them down?”

A delightful annoyance flashes through icy grey eyes, though it doesn’t last long. Anyway, the tint of pink that rushes in to kiss along Tommy’s cheeks is more than worth it.

“I’ll take that as a no…”

Murphy hangs up his jacket and takes his habitual seat on the bench in the small foyer, slipping his shoes off and returning them to their home on the shelf nearby. Luckily, Tommy is clever enough to decern the ‘shoes off at the door’ rule from context cues alone, shrugging his own jacket off before perching on the edge of the bench to tug his first boot off. And underneath is a ratty, worn out sock. Seriously, that thing might be clean, but it should have been mercifully put out to pasture months ago… The man can’t stop his lip from curling in disgust, however, which only serves to make Tommy frown down at his foot.

“Come on through once you’re done.” Pushing himself up to his feet, Murphy heads deeper into the apartment, heading for the kitchen. Maybe readying some beers will distract him. So openly criticising a guest would make him an unwelcoming host, after all, and he would much prefer it if the young man doesn’t flee so soon. The last thing Murphy wants is to eat alone.

Setting two beer bottles on the counter and popping the caps off, he takes a shallow swig as his eyes follow Tommy as the young man meanders through the open plan apartment. Usually the men Murphy brings home like to gawk, taking in the décor with a sense of awe. That’s the first sign that nothing more than a night or four of passion can come from their meeting, those men often finding more interest in Murphy’s assets than in Murphy himself. So, when Tommy briefly glances around in curiosity, more interested in the view of the city that the floor to ceiling windows offer than contents of the apartment itself, well, to say that the man is intrigued would be an understatement. From the clothes that Tommy is wearing, Murphy really had thought he’d been about to witness those icy grey eyes sparkle at the glimpse of the finer things that the older man had seemed fit to bestow. That he all but shrugs it off is… unexpectedly agreeable.

What _does_ make those eyes gleam, however, is the beer bottle waiting for him in the kitchen area. Once it’s been spotted, Tommy hurries over, his feet padding gently over the hardwood flooring. Because he’s barefoot, those ghastly socks nowhere in sight. Murphy can’t help but to smile into his beer. Snatching up his own bottle, Tommy shoots the man a small smile before taking a gulp, his throat bobbing in a pleasing manner.

Tearing his eyes away, Murphy strides over to the fridge and yanks the door open. “Got some starters that shouldn’t take long if you’re hungry.”

“Sure.”

Needing no more prompting, he grabs some of the tubs and carries them over to the counter, shooing Tommy away from his workspace. After grabbing some jars from a cupboard and a freshly baked loaf from the bread bin, he gets to work.

This dish is quick and simple: with most of the prep work done the day before, there is barely anything to do besides assemble it on the plate. Not that this is evident to the young man, those icy grey eyes wide with wonder as he watches.

And just like that, the dish is done.

Ushering his guest back over to his workspace, he presents the two plates with a flourish. “Here we have a trio of starters. First, a traditional smoked salmon served with capers and shallots.” The salmon has been cut into thin slices which have in turn been delicately folded into a rosette-like bed upon which the capers and finely shredded shallots rest. It’s little more than a single mouthful, but it’s enough.

Murphy scoops his portion up and pops it into his mouth, savouring how the flavours mingle as the salmon practically melts on his tongue. Tugging off his fingerless gloves, Tommy mimics the motion, a pleased twinkle in his eyes as he tastes the dish. Perfect.

“Next, is a classic vichyssoise served in a café crème cup, because why not?”

Dark brows pull low, a frown tugging at the young man’s lips. “What’s that?”

“Vichyssoise? It’s a soup consisting of leeks and potatoes. Served chilled, of course.”

The cool, creamy liquid had been carefully decanted into a pair double walled glass coffee cups before being garnished with chives. Taking his glass into hand, Murphy takes a sip as he pretends to not watch Tommy. The young man peers dubiously at the soup before inching the cup closer to take a rather cautious first taste. His head tilts to the side, considering the flavours. Then, with an indifferent shrug, he knocks the cup back, swallowing his serving in one go. Coming from anyone else, Murphy would consider it an insult to the food, but from Tommy? He can’t help but to see it as oddly charming.

His own cup now empty, he casts it aside before turning to the third starter.

“And finally, we have a chicken and brandy parfait served with lightly toasted ciabatta. Both homemade, of course.”

This time those dark brows lift, a spark of delight dancing through grey as Tommy stares down at the dish in wonder. “You made the bread?”

“I did indeed. At first, I was thinking of making a sourdough. The parfait has a delicate taste, though, and it’s easy to overpower. So, I made ciabatta instead.”

“Never had sourdough. Kinda expensive. Usually just get white.”

“Oh, Tommy. _Please_ tell me you don’t buy Wonder Bread.”

“Sorry.” From the grin gracing the young man’s lips, he’s anything but.

“Well, ain’t you in for a treat tonight. Once you’ve tasted _mine_ , Tommy, nothing else will ever be the same!”

The ciabatta is cleanly sliced and gently toasted to a light gold. The parfait has been delicately spread on top; care has been taken to not use too much force to prevent the bread from being squashed. They both lift their slices, taking the first bite together, Murphy taking more delight from watching the young man’s bliss than from the food itself.

With the starters out of the way and their beers drained dry, Murphy sees no reason to not get started on the main. And with a main they should have something more substantial to drink. There is a simple bottle of red he’s had chilling in the fridge. The one he was planning on serving at the dinner party. It’s not his favourite but it’s one of Warren’s and it had been her he was planning on impressing.

As for Tommy, Murphy’s sure that he knows the same about quality wine as he does about decent bread. So, since it’s only himself that he could please, he might as well pick something that he wants. And he _does_ have that bottle that’s been gathering dust…

Walking once more to the fridge, he tugs it open and starts gathering the ingredients for the main. “You a fan of wine?”

“Only drank whatever my housemate buys.”

“Hmm… That’s good to know.”

Tommy’s a blank slate where wine is concerned, then. This could be fun.

He ferries a tub over to the stove and pops off the lid revealing the carrots inside. But these aren’t just your boring, run of the mill carrots. Oh no. These carrots are a mixture of colours, some a golden yellow, others a vibrant purple, and a few that standard orange. The vegetables are already prepped, their skins scrubbed clean the day before.

Melting some butter in a pan to sauté the carrots, Murphy sets about his task. They’re soon browning on the edges and ready for the next step, some seasoning being sprinkled over before chicken stock is added. Then, once the stock is starting to scald, he sprinkles over some sugar before covering the pan, leaving it to simmer.

While a heavy-based pan heats up on another burner, he turns to rummage through the wine cupboard. “Tommy, in the fridge is a bundle of venison. Grab it and cut it open for me, please.”

“Sure.”

He knows that the bottle is in here somewhere, shoved to the back so he wouldn’t be tempted to open it early should a dark mood take him. That’s what the liquor and the cheaper wines at the front are for, after all. And, sure enough his fingers soon grasp the dusty glass, yanking it free from its incarceration and out into the light once more.

“Now, this bottle—”

Murphy freezes, the words dying in his throat. Because Tommy had done as he’d been told, the twine tying together the bundle of brown paper having been cleanly cut to release the meat within. But not with one of Murphy’s knives. Nope. The young man has used one his own. Noticing Murphy staring, Tommy throws him a quick grin before bending over and tugging up the leg of his jeans to slip the blade back into a sheath on his calf.

Well, something just made a lot more sense to Murphy. A country boy like Tommy isn’t going to be as reluctant to follow a stranger home if he’s been armed the whole time.

Not saying a word – because, really, what _is_ there to say? – Murphy grabs a corkscrew and opens the bottle of wine. He’d usually let it breathe for a while in a glass or a decanter but fuck it. This has been one hell of a day and he’s waited long enough to taste this damn bottle already. He pours two glasses, nudging one in Tommy’s direction. The young man takes it with an oblivious smile.

The venison had been cooked the night before and left to rest, letting the meat soften and become tender once more. As the heat is low and the cut is thin, all he must do now is reheat and serve. With just a little more seasoning added as the butter foams away in the pan, this slow reheat will further develop the depth and flavour.

Plating up doesn’t take long, the venison carved against the grain before a green sauce is gently spooned over the top and the carrots are placed loving at its side. Once it’s done, he takes a sip of wine, finally savouring its deep, rich taste before he turns and waves over his guest.

“The main course. Venison pavé served with a green sauce of basil and parsley, accompanied by a rainbow of glazed carrots.”

The young man takes in the dish presented to him and Murphy can’t help the pride that warms his heart. The soft pinks of the tender meat and darker browns of the seared edges; the yellow and orange and purple of the glazed carrots shining as bright as the green sauce. It truly is as much a feast for the eyes as it is for the stomach.

As they dig in, the venison melting in their mouths, Murphy can’t help but ask. “So, what do you think of the wine?”

“Yeah, it’s, uh, nice.”

“Pinot noir. A classic. This particular bottle would bottle would probably pair better with duck or a game bird, but venison works, too.”

“I guess.”

“Bottled in nineteen eighty-seven. That probably makes it older than you.”

That elicits a cute little snort of laughter from the young man.

“It’s from Vosne-Romanée in Côte de Nuits, probably the best wine region in Burgundy. That’s in France, by the way.”

Tommy is silent, eyeing up his glass with renewed interest.

“It was part of the Domaine de le Romanée-Conti collection, making it quite sort after. To think that all those stuffy old bastards born with a silver spoon up their ass lost out just so you could drink it here with me tonight. And doesn’t that make it taste all the more _delicious_?”

At this, Murphy raises his glass with a grin, waiting for the young man do the same before clinking them together. And as Tommy goes in to take a sip, the man times his words well.

“It cost me three and a half grand.”

Tommy chokes.

Usually, Murphy would be annoyed at the mess: red wine stains are notoriously difficult to remove. But this one? He’ll let it slide. Because seeing these expressions on this young man’s face – the startled wide eyes; the look of horrified realisation; the way he peers at the glass with suspicion. Yeah, they make any cleaning bill more than worth it.

“Should… Should I even be drinking this?”

“Well, it’s already open. Would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“But three and a half… Murphy, that’s more than I make in a month…”

Okay, maybe he took it a bit too far. He didn’t mean to make Tommy feel uncomfortable.

“Look, this bottle was meant to be special. When I bought it, I thought that I’d drink it at, I don’t know, whatever would pass for a gay marriage. Or even just me and a boyfriend adopting a damn dog or whatever. But it hasn’t happened. I can’t even get a date for Valentine’s day, for goodness sake. Tommy, this wine was made to be enjoyed, right? Its drinking window is ending soon. Might as well drink it in good company. You understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” With a gentle smile that warms his icy eyes, Tommy traces a finger around the glass with renewed interest. “Once, I got a pack of double stuff Oreos for my birthday. Never seen ‘em before. Didn’t wanna eat them as then they’d be gone but if I didn’t, they’d just go off.”

Murphy’s face falls blank, his voice a low and deadpan rumble. “You did not just compare this bottle of wine with to fucking Oreo…”

And the young man just sends him a grin. It’s sharp and mischievous as it slices across his lips and, in that moment, Murphy knows that he’d do anything if it meant he could see it day after day.

The evening draws on, the conversation remaining relaxed as they share the bottle of wine, their main course eaten in bites taken absently between topics. Their lives couldn’t be more different. Murphy is a city boy, born and raised. He’d never cared about his family or those he grew up around, his mother being the exception, God rest her soul. Because of this, he’d never thought once about hiding his queerness, something that further ostracised him from his peers. But this had also driven him to push himself harder, further, doing anything he could to succeed and get away from that life. To make more of himself than that gay boy from the projects. And, through a combination of a misspent youth and a touch of grifting, it had worked. Look at him now.

Then there’s Tommy, the bi son of a small-town hunter. With that painfully heteronormative upbringing, it came as no surprise to Murphy to hear that the young man had long wrestled with accepting his identity. As he’d only felt safe enough to date girls, he only had a few fleeting experiences with other guys back home, and he’d wanted to explore this side of his sexuality more openly. Funnily enough, it was only because his father had caught him with gay porn that he’d been able to do this. Wanting what’s best for his son, Tommy’s ‘pa’ had helped him move to the city. Once he’d settled in, though, Tommy had come to realise that hook-up culture in the gay scene makes it hard find romance. Most guys he’d been interested in had only wanted a quick fuck and nothing more.

And they’re all idiots. Every single one of them. Sure, he’d only met the young man a few hours ago, but if Murphy thought that there is any chance that a guy like Tommy could be interested in him, he’d make a move in a heartbeat.

But life isn’t some sappy romance. They’re from two separate worlds, this distance between them carved out by both class and time. That today happened at all is merely a coincidence. A fluke. Hell, even a trick pulled by the universe itself to apologise for ruining his damn dinner party.

Murphy’s not an idiot. He knows nothing more can come of this. So, when it comes to making a move, he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy tonight for what it is.

With the wine bottle long dry and joined by more beer bottles than they bothered to keep track of, neither man noticed how late it had become. Unfortunately, as soon as they did, they both knew that… That whatever this is had been between them must come to an end.

Murphy calls Tommy a cab. It being Valentine’s Day, the taxi company were a little backed up, so a car that would usually arrive in the time it takes to boot up and head down to the door will instead take a few minutes more. Seems like this stupid holiday has an upside to it, after all. Not only had it allowed him to share an experience of a three-course meal with a handsome young—

“Fuck! Tommy, we forgot dessert!”

With a burst of laughter, they scramble their way back into the kitchen area, Murphy yanking the fridge door open with a little more force than strictly necessary thanks to his drunken haste.

“Voilà! Crème brûlée!” He roughly deposits two ramekins of pre-prepared dessert onto the kitchen counter before grabbing his blowtorch. Holding the tool out to Tommy, he grins at how the young man’s eye light up with delight. “Care to do the honours?”

They both know that they must hurry, Tommy clicking the torch to life as Murphy sprinkles some brown sugar onto the top of their dessert. As the young man crowds in to caramelise the sugar, Murphy sidesteps behind him to oversee his work. Not wanting his arms to hang idle – or, at least, that’s the excuse the wine conjures up to rationalise this – he gently places his hands onto Tommy’s hips. When he senses no obvious discomfort or rejection, his grip tightens, Murphy feeling emboldened enough to press closer in and rest his chin on a slender shoulder.

Once the crème brûlée is ready, he doesn’t want to move. So, he just doesn’t, stubbornly staying where he is. Luckily, Tommy had learned enough about the kitchen from watching Murphy cook that he’s able to grab two spoons without the assistance of the man pouting into his neck. Still, as intoxicating as he finds the young man’s scent, Murphy isn’t _that_ drunk that he’s forgotten how good he is at making crème brûlée. He finally pulls away and digs in, enjoying the dessert almost as much as the blissful look on Tommy’s face.

Okay, this is _definitely_ the booze talking this time, but Murphy truly believes it’s a shame that neither of the men came into this tonight looking for a hook up or even something more. He hasn’t felt this drawn to a man in years…

Dessert finished, they weave their way back over to the door. Murphy’s shoes are slipped on quickly, the younger man taking more time as he needs to tug his socks back on first. Once those dirty boots are tightly laced up and Tommy starts shrugging on his jacket, the man decides to seek out one last ego boost. Because why not?

“So, how was the crème brûlée?”

“Was nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like cold, crispy custard.”

Relishing in the young man’s mischievous grin, Murphy feints offence, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Tommy. Wound me! Anyway, what would you know about decent food? You eat _Wonder Bread_ …”

With his bomber jacket zipped, the young man looks ready to head out into the cold. Still, that jacket is as cheap as Murphy had thought it to be, so it doesn’t look very warm. And no, the man isn’t just looking for an excuse.

Murphy grabs one of his scarves from the hook, a dark red thing woven from the softest merino wool, and loops it around Tommy’s neck. And the young man just stares up at him, his once icy grey eyes now seeming almost warm, a delicate pink tint dusting his pale cheeks. Sure, it’s probably just a glow from the bright lights and the red scarf, but Murphy would like to _think_ that he’d be able to make this young man blush so sweetly. Because it _is_ Valentine’s Day, after all, and a man can dream.

Despite feeling this– No, _wanting_ this to be more than it what it is, tonight just isn’t a date. So, he holds back, pushing down the desire to cup Tommy’s cheek and press a tender kiss to his lips. Instead, he uses his loving manipulation of the thick, woollen scarf as a distraction as he slips a business card into a jacket pocket. Just in case this handsome young man ever wanted to come find him.

“Now, come on. We gotta sneak you out of here. Wouldn’t want Ms. Hamish to catch us in the hallway again.”

Tommy lets loose a gentle snort of laughter, closing the door behind himself before looping his arm through Murphy’s proffered elbow.

“Oh, also, Tommy, if she _does_ happen to leap out of the shadows, you might want to pull that scarf up over your eyes. For your own protection, of course. I’m not really a fan of leaving witnesses.”

“Nah, don’t worry. I won’t snitch.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really really. Frack, I’d help you hide the body!”

~*~*~

Tommy wobbles across his room before flopping down on his bed. Once his boots are carelessly kicked off, he bundles up the soft scarf and takes a deep breath, inhaling the spicy scent.

_Murphy’s_ scent.

Today had been… Well, he’s not sure how to describe it. Unexpected, sure. Maybe even magical. He’d thought that that’s all this had been – a one-off bit of fun – but as he’d been sitting in the back of the cab, he’d started rummaging through his pocket to find his keys when he’d found it. A business card. One with Murphy’s full name, phone number, and even an email address.

He tugs the card back out, staring in wonder as he traces rough fingers along its embossed lettering. If Murphy had given this to him, then surely he wants Tommy to text him, right? And that the handsome man hadn’t wanted this to be a one-time thing?

Then, couldn’t that have made tonight–

“The wanderer returns, huh?”

The light in Tommy’s room flickers to life, his eyes burning as they race to adjust. Cassandra is standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest and an expectant look set firmly in place. Knowing that she’s always been better with stuff than he is, Tommy rolls towards the edge of the bed. Shoving himself back into an upright position, he perches on the end.

“Geez, Tommy, have you been drinking?” Her voice is amused as starts towards him, frowning down at him in that affectionate way of hers. “You were gone for longer than we’d planned. What mischief did you get up to, huh?”

“Cass, I… I think I had a _date_.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this might have another few chapters at some point in the future, but for now I should get back to writing my main 10k/Murphy series, Mithridatism...
> 
> Let me know what you think, and happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> <3


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